White lies

In his room, Frank tensed. Had they failed to cover all bases? "Is it about Steve?"

"Well, no, not really. The agent who died… what was his name? It’s been on my mind a lot lately, that he died and I never even heard his name."

"There’s no reason you should have. You’d never met him."

"I know," she said softly. "I just wanted to know something about him. It could have been Steve. Now that he’s dead, there’s no reason to keep his name se- cret, is there?"

Frank thought. He could give her a fictitious name, but he decided to tell her at least that much of the truth. She’d know his name eventually, and it might help if she could simply think a mistake had been made. It would give her a small fact she could focus on for reference. "His name was Lucas Stone."

"Lucas Stone." Her voice was very soft as she repeated the name. "Was he married? Did he have a family?"

"No, he wasn’t married." He deliberately didn’t answer her second question.

"Thanks for telling me. It’s bothered me that I didn’t know." He’d never know how much, she thought as she quietly replaced the receiver. Lucas Stone. She repeated the name over and over in her mind, applying it to a battered face and feeling her heart begin to pound. Lucas Stone. Yes.

Only then did she realize what a mistake she’d made. If it had been difficult before to refer to him as Steve, it would be almost impossible now. Steve had been a stolen name, but one she’d used because there had been no alternative. What if the name Lucas slipped out?

She sat on the bed for a long time while she mentally flailed against the hall of mirrors that trapped her with its false reflections. The things she didn’t know bound her as securely as the things she knew, until she was afraid to trust her own instincts. She wasn’t made for deception; she was straightforward, which was one reason why she hadn’t fitted into the world of investment banking, a world that required a certain measure of "slickery," that balance of slickness and trickery.

Finally, too tired to open any more blank doors, she took a shower and got ready for bed. When she came out of the bathroom, Lucas–Stevel she reminded herself frantically–was stretched out on the bed, already partially undressed.

She looked at the locked door. "Haven’t we done this before?"

He rolled to his feet and caught her arms, pulling her to him. "With one difference. A big difference."

He smelled of soap and shaving cream, and the underlying muskiness of man. She clung to him, pressing her face into his neck to inhale that special scent. What would she do if he left her? It would be a life without color, forever incomplete. Slowly she ran her hands over his broad chest, rubbing her ringers through the crisp, curly hair and feeling the warmth of his skin, then the iron layer of muscles beneath. He was so hard that her fingers barely made an impression. Bemused, she pressed experimentally on his upper arm, watching as her fingernails turned white from the pressure but had noticeably little effect on him.

"What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"Seeing how hard you are."

"Honey, that’s not the right place."

Her face was bright with laughter as she swiftly looked up at him. "I think I know all your other places."

"Is that so? There are places, and then there are places. Some places need a lot more attention than others." As he spoke he began moving her toward the bed. He was already aroused, his hardness pressing against her. Jay moved her hand down to cover the ridge beneath his jeans.

"Is this one of the places in need of attention?"

"A lot of attention," he assured her as he levered them both onto the bed. He felt her legs move, her hips lifting to cradle him, and all amusement faded out of his eyes, leaving them fierce and narrow. It was a look that made Jay shudder in exquisite anticipation.

She looked up at him, her face soft and shining as his hands began moving tenderly on her body. "I love you," she said, and her heart echoed, Lucas.

It was different the next morning, as if the world had altered during the night, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference. It was an oddly familiar feeling, as if he were more at home with himself. Jay was in his arms, her sleek, golden-brown hair lying tangled on his shoulder. If they had been in the cabin he would have got up to rebuild the fire, then returned to bed for some early-morning loving. Instead he had to go to his own room to shave and dress. That damn Frank. He’d booked separate rooms knowing they needed only one. But Jay wasn’t like all the other women; Jay was special, and maybe this was Frank’s tribute to her specialness.

Other women. The thought nagged at him after he left Jay and returned to his own room in the biting cold of dawn. His memory was returning, not in one big, melodramatic rush, like a light switch being turned on, but in unconnected bits and pieces. Faces and names were surfacing. Instead of feeling elated, however, he was aware of a growing sense of caution. He hadn’t told Frank his memory was coming back; he’d wait until it had truly returned and he’d had time to consider the situation. Wariness was second nature to him, just as he automatically checked his room to make certain no one had entered it in his absence.

He showered and shaved, but as he shaved he found himself staring at his face in the mirror, trying to find his past in the reflection. How could he recognize himself when his face had been changed? What had he looked like before? He wondered if Jay had a picture of him; it would be an old one, if she’d kept any at all. But women tended to keep mementos and their divorce hadn’t been a bitter one, so maybe she hadn’t destroyed whatever pictures she’d had. Maybe seeing one would give him a link to the past.